


How to Deal

by silentxsoul



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Friendship, dealing with death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:18:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8297228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentxsoul/pseuds/silentxsoul
Summary: It occurred to her then that perhaps she’d been going about dealing with her life the wrong way. She had been used to keeping everything so guarded (so very much like a pitcher—a master poker face with no indication of what was really going on in her mind) that it never occurred to her how simply talking to someone else about her problems could help. She’d been so consumed with trying to figure out how to properly grieve and deal with her dad’s death that she’d never considered that there was no right way.





	

The 2016 season ended for the Padres in a dramatic fourteenth inning walk-off by Buster Posey in the National League wild-card game. It was heartbreaking to have made such a strong post season push only to have it ripped away by a bloop-single to right field. The national media had a field day with the Giant’s push for another even year title, but much to the Padre’s delight their opponents lost in the Divisional Series to the Chicago Cubs.

Ginny Baker was never happier than to see the even year bullshit finally come to an end.

The Cub’s ended up winning it all in a tight World Series match up against the Cleveland Indians (and if you would have told her that at the beginning of the season she would have laughed you). Though she wouldn’t admit it, Ginny watched every second of the post season that she could in-between the long hours training and the obligatory public appearances. She was hungry for a title—had been since she won her first little league series. That hunger was only fueled by winning State back in 2010, and again with securing the wildcard game this past season. She made note of every hitter’s patterns, every tick, every movement. She wanted the upper hand when it was her turn, because like the voice in the back of her mind often reminded her, she hadn’t done anything yet.

Her entire off-season was spent in San Diego meeting with trainers and various pitching experts. Every day she clocked almost a full eight hours in the gym alternating between cardio, strength, and repetitive training for her arm. She was careful in how often she actually used her full effort in the pitches, making sure not to tax her biggest asset (and the only source of income besides the endorsement deals that had begun to trickle in once it was clear she was there to stay).

Their home opener for 2017 was an experience she would never forget. The hype built up in San Diego almost a full month before the scheduled game and the stadium was packed and loud. People had lined up almost four hours early to get into the stadium, eager to see some baseball after such a long break. As they announced the starting lineup (Miller had gotten the nod to start at home after his dominate performance in spring training—setting the tone at home was just as important to Al as starting off on fire on the road.) each player was met with deafening cheers. It was also a bit of poetic irony that their first home game was a sold out Friday night event against the Giants—and the crowd relished in it.

Miller pitched the best game of his career that night, only allowing one hit and a grand total of twelve strikeouts. They’d won 3-0 after Lawson’s solo shot in the first inning and a two-run rally late in the eighth inning. Winning that game had given them a five-game win streak to begin the season. The night before Ginny had pitched a decent game—going eight innings with only three hits and two walks. The relief pitcher had given up a solo shot to deep center, but the offense had already posted 5 runs to give them the win.

That was the tone that the Padre’s had set for the season and each member of the team carried their weight. It was a stark contrast from when Ginny was first called up and there were many guys who weren’t focused and were more concerned about the after-party (regardless if they’d won or not)—and she loved it. This year she had a team to rally around; not just a couple of guys in her corner rooting for her success. She could actively cheer with every guy in the dugout. Ginny even had a designated celebratory hand shake with a few of the infielders.

The team unity had extended beyond just the field, and it was just as surprising to her as it was to Lawson (who secretly was considering this as his year to go out with a bang before retiring in the offseason and was loving every second of success the team had achieved). Ginny and Mike weren’t the only ones showing up at the crack of dawn do workouts. The usual training session almost fifteen of the guys packed into the Padre’s training room. Even as she would leave more would trickle in—and the payoff showed. By mid-May they were on pace to reach 95 wins this season. The pitching staff was ranked in the top five in all of baseball, and the offense was second only behind the Yankees (which was bullshit because of their bush league park anyone could hit a home-run).

Today though, all of those accomplishments and reflections she’d held on to for the duration of the offseason were pushed to the back of her mind as the date on her phone stared back at her mockingly.

**_May 14, 2017_ **

It was a Sunday and they were in Chicago to finish up an interleague series against the White Sox. It was the first time in a long time that Ginny was happy she wasn’t on the mound. Her last game on Friday was rocky to say the least (Lawson had to trot out four times before Al yanked her in the sixth). She’d been off her game and completely and totally unable to get her mind in the right place and it simultaneously pissed her off and made her want to sob the ugly kind of sob when the pressure became too much.

Pissed because she took every loss harder than she should, pissed because she knew she was better than that and had undoubtedly let everyone around her down. Pissed also because after seven years she still couldn’t handle the time around her father’s birthday without falling apart. Pissed because she felt like she was being too dramatic, being too immature, too inexperience.

Also pissed because she didn’t really know how she was supposed to feel about her Dad, his death, and everything involved. Even after seven years.

And that’s what made her want to sob uncontrollably into her pillow. The grief and guilt had been tugging at her chest since the first pitch on Friday—but Ginny was strong. She wasn’t going to break down and let her emotions win. She was supposed to be a robot—to be in control over every though, every movement, and every emotion. Ginny refused to let the tears fall and focused with every breath on making it through the day as if it were any other. As if her mind wasn’t trying to fall back into the pit of memories.

The memories of surprising her dad with a homemade cake that Will had baked and she decorated. The memories of him smiling and hugging his kids tight. The memories of just being a family, and not just the ‘baseball dad and that freak-pitcher daughter’.

Instead Ginny had snuck off to the pitching cages at the White Sox’s stadium Saturday and pitched until her arm went numb. The numbness was comforting, it gave her mind something to fixate on after pitching again and again and again. When she showed up again today at the crack of dawn she was surprised to find Miller occupying one of the cage’s, furiously pitching ball after ball into the padded backstop.

Ginny took a step towards the cage, intending on asking Miller if he was okay or not, but something in the back of her mind stopped her. She watched him for a moment, oblivious to her arrival, as he pounded each fastball into the same place over and over again—leaving an impressive dent in the padding. Without a word Ginny turned and headed into the cage next to him and tossed a few warm-up pitches.

Soon the only sound in the room were the alternating thwack’s of baseballs hitting padding. Ginny’s mind had started to revert into zen-like state where the only thing she was concerned about was painting the (invisible) inside corners with her fastball (with each pitch she imagined the batter, the catcher, and the call). It was the weakest pitch she had, but it was also the most satisfying to throw because she could let her arm be free and throw with all her might. But, just like yesterday that state of focus slowly slipped away as the critic in her head began to sound more and more like her father.

_Lower._

_Your grip is too strong—relax. Again._

_Inside and down._

_No, again. Inside. Down._

_Again._

And ever so slowly the urge to breakdown was back. The pull at her chest, the knot in her throat. The tears pricking the back of her eyes. She wanted so badly for her dad to be there then, to have it out with him for leaving her alone in this whole process. To yell at him for not being there for her call up, for not really being there at her first start. For not being there to help her figure her shit out. To ask him why he’d left her before seeing her pitch in the majors. To blame him for every bad start she’s had since he died. For every fucked up emotion she’d felt.

But mostly she just wanted to have him toss the ball back one more time.

Ginny wasn’t really sure when the tears started. At first she thought it was just the sweat dripping from her brow, but somewhere along the line the ragged breathes and hitched sobs that escaped instead of grunts as she released the ball all but confirmed she was crying.

She reached for another ball only to find the bucket empty. Glancing around Ginny noted that she’d made quite the collection of balls scattered against the base of the backstop, but instead of walking over to collect them and start another round of pitching she dropped to her knees and simply stared at where he dad used to be—catching each pitch and throwing it back to her. Now she had fifty balls littered around and no one to throw them back.

Her sobs were muffled as she wrapped her arms around herself, finally giving into the urge. Ginny was unaware of the sound of the cage door opening, or the sound of shuffling steps that approached her. She was also unaware of the person who knelt before her, silently wrapping her in his arms. The realization dawned on her long enough for her to settle into the embrace and wrap her arms around Miller’s torso, thankful for him simply just being there.

It was a while before her sobs ebbed and she was able to unwrap herself from Tommy’s hug. As she sat back on her heals, she felt the dull heat of a blush trying to settle in on her cheeks. With a quick wipe of her eyes Ginny cast him a grateful smile. “I…thanks.” She managed.

Tommy shrugged, not meeting her gaze, “Sometimes you just need a shoulder to cry on. No thanks needed, Baker.”

Ginny looked at him for a long moment, unsure of what to really say. The dynamic between the two pitchers had shifted over the course of a year, going from butting heads and near enemies to a sibling-esque rivalry. Tommy a year ago probably would have had a field day walking in on her crying in the pitching cage, but now. Well, now he was consoling her and he didn’t even know why.

“I mean it Baker; you can’t always conceal everything. I learned that a long time ago.” He said softly, moving to sit cross-legged in front of her. “Bottling up stuff is bad for our business and it usually leads to pitching aggressively at six a.m.”

Ginny chuckled despite herself, “Is that why you are in here so early?”

Tommy nodded, “Something like that. Mother’s Day is always a rough time—it’s kind of a routine anymore. Mother’s Day comes around and I’m in here hiding from reality.” Ginny cocked her head slightly (and Tommy resisted the urge to point out how much like Lawson she looked doing that stupid head-cocking move).

Ginny watched as he looked away, as his eyes adopted the same familiar glazed over look like Will’s did whenever he thought about their dad. She took in how his body suddenly tensed up as he concentrated on each word he spoke. How Tommy idly drew his hand through his hair like he always did when he was rattled (something she picked up from watching him pitch from the dugout because she was always bored during games that she wasn't pitching in and found it easier to pass time by analyzing everything).  “Your mom…she’s passed I take it?” she finally asked.

Again he nodded, this time glancing away for a long moment. “Ovarian Cancer when I was sixteen. She was the best woman out there—always laughing and so supportive. Never missed a game, even when she was going through chemo and the doc’s told her to stay inside. She was so full of life, even at the end…”

As he trailed off Ginny leaned forward to embrace him, returning the favor from earlier. She could tell it surprised him but the sudden tensing of his body, but he quickly muttered his thanks and returned the short hug. Settling back, Ginny found herself talking of her own issues (for the first time since the night of the wreck when she had to give her statement to the Highway Patrolman).

“It’s my dad’s birthday… was my dad’s birthday. He…it’s…” Ginny sighed and ran a hand over her face. This was the exact reason she never talked about it—she simply couldn’t put into words what had happened… how to talk about it at all.

“You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want too, Baker.” Miller said softly, fully knowing how hard it could be sometimes to talk about his own mother. He knew from a few guys on the team that her dad had died a few years back, but he never knew how or what actually happened. Tommy was content with that too; he wasn't one to pry in something so personal like that and figured if she'd wanted the team to know then she would have told them. Besides, knowing how the man died didn't do any favors for the team, so he resigned to simply understanding that it had happened and moved on.

Ginny shook her head and gave him a determined look. “No… I need too. It’s just, I’ve never talked about it. Ever. The last time was to give my statement about the drunk driver crossing over and hitting us head on. How everything went black and when I came too there was just a giant hole in the windshield and my da-“ she broke off, a sob getting stuck in her throat. For a moment she closed her eyes and bit back the tears—collecting herself. “My dad was gone. He’d been ejected and landed so far from the truck. I…the image of him…sorry.” She muttered, looking away and trying desperately to get a hold of herself. The pull into the memories were so strong—it would be so easy to just slip in and let them consume her…

Miller let out low whistle followed by a muttered “Jesus, Fuck”. 

“I saw him,” she said finally. “I saw the other guy. I was the one to call the ambulance, the police, all of them. I was the one to call my mom, to tell her to come get me because it was bad. Since then it’s just been… hard, to really deal with it, you know?”

Tommy nodded, “Grief isn’t something we all deal with the same. Hell, sometimes I don’t know if I’m even done grieving. There are days when it’s really fucking hard to act normal when all I want to do is call my mom and hear her voice one more time.”

She glanced at him before turning her attention to the backstop littered with baseballs. Her expression hardened then, as she prepared herself for what she was about to admit next. “Every damn day I since that night I’ve wished it were the drunk guy and not him. What kind of person does that make me? Wishing death onto someone else—so another daughter or mother can grieve instead of me?” Ginny demanded painfully.

“Normal. It doesn’t make you a bad person for wanting your dad back, Baker. What happened to you is fucking tragic and no one has the right to tell you what you can and can’t want, or how to deal with it.” Miller responded, catching her eyes with his own. She was taken aback by how fiercely they pierced her own, at how low his voice had become.

It occurred to her then that perhaps she’d been going about dealing with her life the wrong way. She had been used to keeping everything so guarded (so very much like a pitcher—a master poker face with no indication of what was really going on in her mind) that it never occurred to her how simply talking to someone else about her problems could help. She’d been so consumed with trying to figure out how to properly grieve and deal with her dad’s death that she’d never considered that there was no right way.

Ginny felt her lips tug at the corners, a ghost of a smile trying to fight its way to her face. “I… I think I needed to hear that, Tommy. Thanks.”

Miller only nodded before pushing himself up into a standing position, arm extended to Ginny to help her up. “How about we call it a wrap and go grab some breakfast?”

Ginny accepted his help and allowed him to pull her up to her feet. With a nod she bent over and grabbed her bag and sweatshirt before following him out of the cage door and out of the training room. As they headed down the hall Miller slunk a long arm over her shoulders, “You’ve got to teach me how to paint the inside corner like that some time.”

Ginny laughed heartily, “It’s taken years of practice, honestly.” It was true, she’d spent many years working with her father on hitting the exact spot over and over again. He always said it could be a secret weapon because statistically, it was one of the hardest spots for a batter to hit. Idly she wondered if he would be proud of how consistent she’d gotten over the years.

After a long moment Ginny spoke, “Hey Miller, anytime you have one of those bad days you can come vent to me.”

“So long as anytime you need someone to toss back those pitches you come find me.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Miller and Ginny are seriously becoming my BROTP and there is a distinct lack of that on here. So I fixed it. Also I'm supposed to be taking a marketing exam but the urge to write again is too strong (especially now that I've actually started writing again).


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